Dear Dave

  Safe operating procedure

Dear Dave,

I was removing the packet of a new screwdriver the other day when I noticed that the instructions contained the warning, 'Do not insert in ear.' As I set about loosening the screw holding shut the battery compartment on a new plug'n'play computer game, I noted that the batteries came with the helpful advise, 'Do not open.' The game itself suggested the user should play in a brightly lit room, rest for fifteen minutes in every hour and never play when tired. I thought this was being rather hopeful. The additional advice to cease playing in the event of losing consciousness did seem sensible, however.

All this was for a child who came with no warning labels whatsoever and is, without doubt, the most dangerous thing in my house! It is time to redress the balance. The following should be distributed in maternity wards everywhere:

Your child. Care and safety warnings.

Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of a new human being. We hope you experience many years of happiness and satisfaction with this product. As with all complex biological systems, however, your offspring will require some care and maintenance to ensure optimum performance. Please take a moment to look over these instructions and familiarise yourself with safe operating procedure. Thank you for your cooperation.

Non-compliance with these warnings may cause malfunction of the product, injury or distress to pets and soft furnishings and/or invalidate your warranty. No returns can be accepted and there are strictly NO REFUNDS.

• Keep away from fires, sharp objects and open tubes of toothpaste.
• Handwash only.
• Product may emit strong odour. This is not a defect.
• Slippery when wet.
• Cross-border transfer may be restricted.
• This product can cause nausea, drowsiness, irritation, despair, anger, frustration or exhaustion. If symptoms persist, seek help, prayer and beer.
• Caution: Contains vomit.
• Not dishwasher safe.
• Slippery when covered in suncream.
• Do not throw out with bathwater.
• Risk of high noise levels. Wear ear protection.
• Do not combine with alcohol, excessive sugar, wet cement or fragile valuables.
• Slippery when covered from head-to-toe in purple paint. Note: Also messy.
• Not for use as a floatation device.
• Danger of choking: Product may feed you LEGO while you are sleeping.
• Just plain slippery.
• Warning: Product may contain traces of its grandparents.
• Do not tumble-dry.
• Children in mirrors may be closer than they appear.
• Prone to incessant wittering.
• Do not leave in direct sunlight, cars or trifle. (Cages are fine).
• Contents may stain clothing.
• Requires love, attention, support and university tuition fees. (Not included).
• Waterproof, shockproof and resistant to reason.
• Store in a cool, dry place.
• Do not refrigerate.
• Handcuffs are not a substitute for parental supervision.

We hope this new addition to your family brings you joy and pleasure. Good luck.

Did I miss any? Hope things are going well. Thanks for filling me in on your own pokemon-related nicknames. Glad to hear you have a Diglett in the family. I wouldn't call Liz 'Snorlax' to her face, though, no matter how big she's getting.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS I've just taken a look at the list of possible side-effects of some travelsickness pills we have - one of them is vomiting. Hmmm....

Labels: children (vol.1), children (vol.2)

 
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1:28 PM - Permanent Link - 1 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Pub

Dear Dave,

I went to the pub the other night. It felt very odd. For starters, it was only about the second time I'd been to the pub since the smoking ban came in up here so it was a novelty to be able to breathe. Just leaving the house without children was peculiar, though. Doing so at night was even more weird. I occasionally get to escape during the day at the weekend but I'm usually too tired in the evening once the kids are in bed. The world looked strange. I probably looked strange too, bounding along the pavement unencumbered by buggies or changing bags or screaming children. I seemed to bounce along as if the lead weights had been removed from my boots. It was like walking on the moon (with the added advantage of my head not exploding from lack of air pressure, fortunately).

Rob wanted to talk away from the women-folk and I thought I'd better make the effort and go and meet him. He was panicking again about the prospect of fatherhood. (Remember Rob? He used to be my minion at LBO).

He was waiting at the bar when I arrived. He bought us drinks and we settled ourselves down in a dingy corner. At least I settled myself - he downed half his pint and then sat and fidgeted. I suddenly remembered to check that the kids hadn't wandered off. Equally suddenly, I remembered I didn't have any with me. I was out in the world as a person in my own right. I wasn't obviously a dad to everyone who looked at me. This made me unexpectedly nervous. People let you off with a lot if you've got small children to protect you. They're a distraction, an excuse and a talking point. I felt exposed without any.

I covered by checking my phone to make sure I hadn't missed any messages. "How's work?" I said, which is normally a safe bet - Rob's always keen to talk through his technical difficulties.

"They cancelled the project."

"What? How are they going to manage the new accounts without the IT systems?"

"No, that's not it. They decided that giving out scratchcards rather than interest was going to get them in trouble so they've canned the accounts. We're still working on the IT."

"What?" I'd been looking forward to the scratchcards. "You're still working on the software for a product that's never going to exist?"

"Yeah. What else are we going to do? There's rumours going round about redundancies across the whole department. We're just trying to look busy."

I nodded. It occurred to me, however, that if I was in charge, people who managed to look busy despite clearly having no useful work to achieve would be the first to find their names mysteriously removed from the organisation chart.

We stared at our pints for a bit. "How's the leak?" Rob asked eventually.

"Put it this way," I sighed, "whenever I go into the cupboard under the stairs now, I take a snorkel and harpoon-gun with me just in case. We've had four different plumbers out to look at it. Mario and Luigi checked the pipes, Mario2 checked the drains and Mario's Friend checked the guttering. Fraser's list of amusing names is getting desperate already but none of them can figure out where the water's coming from. We're talking major work to repair all the damage as well." Rob muttered condolences but he was obviously still caught up in his own problems. "How's Kate doing?" I asked.

"Fine, I think. It's hard to tell - she's just knackered the whole time. She comes home from work and goes to bed. Then she wakes up in the middle of the night and eats sausages."

"I take it she's not veggie any more, then?"

Rob ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. "She reckons vegetables have started looking at her funny. You know, like a nutter on a bus. She's avoiding them in case they try anything. Broccoli - she's sure the broccoli is out to get her. She knows it's planning something."

"O... K... She should get over that in a few weeks, though. Have you thought any more about getting married?"

"To the woman who's thinking about taking out a restraining order against cabbages?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of to the woman you love and who is carrying your child but that too. Hormones and lack of sleep are going to drive you both crazy at various points over the next year or three so you're just going to have to get on and make plans anyway. Is she going to go back to work after her maternity leave runs out? If she is, is it going to be full-time or part-time? And what about you?"

"Me?" He was starting to squeak.

"She's a solicitor. She earns a good wage working with people in a job she enjoys. You work in a cubicle and spend half your time emailing me funny stories you found on the internet while you were bored. Which of you would cope better staying home? If there are redundancies going round anyway, you could go voluntarily and escape with a load of free cash."

"And become a deviant like you?"

"I usually refer to myself as a housedad, but yeah. You asked me about it the other day; you must be thinking about it."

"That was the day after I found out," he said, chewing his nails. "I was panicking. I didn't know what I was saying. I don't even know how to change a nappy."

"Neither did I before Fraser was born. You get plenty of practice pretty quick, believe me. Imagine it as a computer game. You gradually gain experience by doing things such as fighting your way through the baby department at John Lewis, braving the terrors of parent and toddler and experimenting with stain removers. You also get to solve puzzles such as which pram to buy and how to get porridge out of your watch."

This analogy seemed to be going down well, so I continued with a small genre switch. "Every so often your pokemon level-up, too. They start off with the ability to eat, sleep and expel bodily waste. As time passes, they learn new skills, allowing them to smile, walk, jump, talk and embarrass you in public. Then they evolve into bigger monsters that take more persuading to do what they're told and require totally different discipline techniques."

I was on a roll. "Eventually you're a level sixty wizard with a highly trained menagerie capable of doing all the chores around the house and then going out into the world and bringing back treasure to support you in your old age. An old age in which you get to laugh evilly for no apparent reason while being wheeled round by devoted slaves." I stared wistfully into the distance.

"I don't know," said Rob. "Don't take it personally or anything but aren't women just better at looking after kids? You know, multi-tasking and all that."

"A man can prepare a meal in between doing the washing up while entertaining a baby at the same time as supervising a game of Snakes and Ladders. That's all multi-tasking is. A woman feels superior because she can do all these things and hold a conversation without being distracted. They're really doing the same number of things, though."

"No, they're not. She's talking as well."

"Yes, but the man's thinking about sex. It's the same number of things."

"OK," said Rob, "so if it's that simple, why aren't there more housedads around? How come you and that Dave bloke you write to are the only ones I've heard of?"

"Well, there are lots of reasons." I scratched my head. "I don't know. Some people find the whole concept odd. In lots of couples, both partners have to work. Then again, some men feel it's their duty to be out there winning the bread or don't want to have to go cap in hand to their partner if they want to buy a gadget. There are all kinds of reasons. The hours are long as well and I only get about five days holiday a year."

Rob shrugged. "That's not so bad. I get twenty-two."

"Ah... No, I don't think you're entirely understanding me here. You get a hundred and thirty-five days holiday a year."

"Don't be daft."

"I'm not being daft. What do you think I do with the kids on bank holidays and weekends? Put them into storage?"

His eyes widened. "Oh..."

"And I don't get sick days, either," I added. "If you became a housedad, there'd be no more rugby-related viruses forcing you to take long weekends in Dublin in order to recuperate."

"Hey! I went into work when I really had the flu to make up for that."

"I always have to go into work if I have the flu. Did I tell you about the time me and the boys managed to throw up twenty-five times between us in the space of eighteen hours?"

"You're not really selling this."

"True. I'm just giving you something to think about. You're going to do fine as a dad and you could be a great housedad..." I coughed. "...given a bit of training. I'm not going to tell you it's a sunshine world of domestic bliss and biscuits, though. It's low-stress, fun and rewarding but requires plenty of hard work, patience, diplomacy and organisational ability. A strong stomach is also handy."

"Yeah." Rob nodded but his eyes were starting to glaze over with information overload.

I changed the subject. "Played anything good recently?"

"MotorStorm rocks," he said, looking a little embarrassed.

"You bought a PS3?" I said, slightly too loudly.

"Yeah. I was walking home past GAME the other day and it just kind of happened. I needed something to take my mind off things. My credit card's smarting, what with the HDTV as well. Looks ace, though."

"Tell me you got a spare controller."

"It was part of the bundle."

"Then what the flip are we doing here?" I said, finishing off my pint. "Get your coat - you've pulled."

We headed out the door for a night of excellent but foolishly expensive gaming. As we left, however, Rob looked at me sideways, a thought coming back to him. "You actually think of them as pokemon, don't you?" he said.

"Maybe," I said. "Certainly, when people ask Marie her name, she says, 'Pikachu'."

Rob laughed. "I think I'll call mine Squirtle." He laughed again. This time, however, there was just the faintest hint of a cackle...

I wonder what I've started now.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Do your kids have any unlikely pet names?

Labels: blokesnight, children (vol.1), favourite, housedad (vol.1)

 
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1:28 PM - Permanent Link - 1 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Marie update

Dear Dave,

Just a quick note to give you an update on Marie:

The potty training is going pretty well now. We haven't had any major disasters in a while. Her sleeping's back to normal as well, apart from the need to 'argue' with Lewis every night before nodding off. Strangely, they lie there counting loudly at each other until one of them needs the toilet.

As for her imagination:

Sarah asked her the other day what little girls grow up to be. She was hoping for the answer, "Ladies." Quick as a flash, Marie answered, "Cats." Intrigued, Sarah asked her what little boys grow up to be. Marie thought about it for a moment and then, with great satisfaction, answered, "Lemons."

And clothing:

Last week Marie wanted to wear her bicycle helmet the entire time. It was frustrating.

Now, however, let's just say I look back on those days and remember them fondly:



Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1)

 
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9:00 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Bubblewrap attack!

Dear Dave,

Help! I'm trapped in my kitchen.

I ordered six hula-hoops over the internet from a major high street retailer and now I'm in trouble. I should have been warned when these guys previously bubble-wrapped cottonwool but this time they've gone insane. Each hula-hoop arrived in a separate box. According to the labels, each box was originally the packaging for TWO TRAMPOLINES. Any of the boxes on its own could have easily housed all six hoops. But no. All six boxes were stuffed full of padding with a single ring of plastic encased in the centre.

This level of packaging would have seemed excessive if I lived in the desert and the things were being shoved out of the back of a low-flying plane. Considering they turned up by courier van, my mind boggles. What were they thinking? If there's a fire, I'm toast - my escape route is blocked by a mountain of cardboard and bubblewrap. It's not even the fun, poppable bubblewrap; it's like rolls of armbands.

It's just crazy... Or maybe I'm missing something, maybe it's a free game! Let's see, what have I got:

• A near endless supply of identical enemies to hack at and deflate.
• Half a dozen larger foes requiring disassembly.
• A tedious block puzzle consisting of trying to sort and squeeze the folded remains into the appropriate waste receptacles.
• A hidden exit which can only be revealed by collecting up a whole load of useless tat.

Heck, throw in some dull cut-scenes and I could be playing Primal. Forget about the potential fun contained in the hoops and it would be Starfox Adventures...

Of course, the really crazy thing is that someone somewhere thinks they've done me a favour here. They probably have a warm glow about the care and attention they've shown my purchases. It's the same kind of misplaced zeal that makes computer game designers add value-for-money by forcing us to return to past levels and complete them in the opposite direction while wearing a different coloured hat. It's the same unfortunate delusion which means DVDs are infested with interactive menus, scenes that were deleted because they were rubbish and lengthy documentaries explaining why Tom Cruise is such a great guy. Wake up people! Less really can be more (especially if it's cheaper and/or doesn't create a fire hazard in my hallway).

I shouldn't get too judgmental, however. I'm not immune to the madness. Our house is stuffed full of educational toys and games, and I'm beginning to suspect that they're cancelling each other out. There's a tub of toys in the lounge that Marie hasn't really looked in since January. It's just sitting in a corner, taking up space. Any one of those toys left in the same location on its own would probably get played with but the current jumble of colours and shapes is simply too easy to ignore. Truth be told, if I tipped the entire contents out the window and left just the tub in the middle of the room, the kids would play with it all afternoon.

In fact, I'll go do that just now. Less stimulation might truly be more...



Er, still trapped... Help?

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), computer games, corporate madness

 
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8:47 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Imagination

Dear Dave,

Thanks for the sympathy over the lack of sleep. Things have been OK the last couple of days but Marie's kicking up much more of a fuss at bedtime than she used to. I can only assume having me at her beck and call all night gave her a taste for power. Speaking of which, she was wanting me to vote for her in the Scottish elections. She's decided she's in the Pink Party. This is kind of like the Green Party but, rather than pushing for a greener planet, the Pink Party's goal is much, well... pinker. I suspect if they ever came to power then the whole world would resemble the girls' aisle of Toys'R'Us (except maybe with a bit more glitter, if that's possible...)

She's only two-and-a-half and she's inventing political parties! You were asking for more examples of how every child is different and I have to say that if there is one thing which varies wildly between my children it's their level of imagination.

Oddly, this is best exemplified by their attitude towards LEGO.

Everyone knows the entire point of having children is in order to be able to buy cool toys while looking like an ace dad rather than a hopeless loser geek. (Or is that just me?) Anyway, I've been biding my time, waiting to purchase LEGO Mindstorms, for what seems like an age now but it's beginning to look like none of my kids could actually care less about LEGO. All for differing reasons, of course, but all to do with the bounds of their imaginations:

To Fraser, a pile of bricks is just a pile of bricks. He's also a bit lazy so if he wanted a castle, he'd want it ready assembled and to come with lots of interesting levers and stuff. If he got it, he'd play with it for five minutes, check how it all worked and then go off and play a computer game. He doesn't have the imagination to make up stories about some bricks. It's not anything - it's just LEGO. Prospective careers: Engineer, Traffic Warden, Middle Manager.

To Lewis, a pile of bricks is a pile of bricks but he can be persuaded to stick a few together and make believe they're a castle or a pyramid. This is all well and good but he has slightly too much imagination to see the point of LEGO. He can make a car from three small bricks and a wheel. The tiniest semblance of reality will do - he doesn't need a big tub full of weird and wacky specialist parts. (Drat). Prospective careers: Architect, Journalist, Estate Agent.

To Marie, a pile of bricks could be anything from a selection of apples to a washing machine. The problem is, if you can stretch reality that far, who needs bricks? (Apart from to weigh down your pockets to stop you floating away). Prospective careers: Advertising Creative, Public Relations Officer, Space Cadet.

We knew Lewis had a strong imagination from an early age. When he was two he was constantly making us all imaginary cups of tea (no plastic cups or anything). One day Fraser got fed up with the silly make-believe nonsense, however, and decided to play Lewis at his own game. Fraser held out his imaginary cup at arms length and slowly tipped the imaginary contents over the floor. Lewis burst into tears. He was distraught at all the work he'd have to do cleaning up the mess...

That's a slightly scary amount of imagination. Marie has probably surpassed him, though. Sarah asked Marie's opinion on a couple of pairs of trousers she was trying on in a shop the other day. On seeing the first pair, Marie shook her head. "They snakes eating your legs. You not wear them." On viewing the second, she said, "No, they have a chicken in them." On the way home in the buggy, she suddenly commented, "The wind turn me into a cat... I not go miaow."

When Marie's a little older, I can just see her and Fraser having big arguments while staring at the sky:

Marie: It's a dragon.
Fraser: It's a cloud.
Marie: It looks like a dragon.
Fraser: But it's a cloud.
Marie: What about that one? It's a deep fat fryer!
Fraser: It's a cloud.
Marie: That one's a spaceship. With aliens. And lobsters.
Fraser: That's a cloud, too.
Marie: Look! A pirate made of sausages!
Fraser: IT'S... A... CLOUD!
Marie: He's playing hop-scotch.
Fraser (finally giving in): Oh all right, and that one's a sheep.
Marie: No, that's a cloud.

I may have to intervene at that point in order to avoid bloodshed...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS I took this photo of Marie following the Eternity of Sleepless Doom. I imagine this is how Britney Spears must look the morning after a really wild night out with Paris and Lindsay:

Labels: children (vol.1), sleep

 
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9:00 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Every child is different

Dear Dave,

Already? Are you sure? I mean, I guess you'd know but... Yeah, thinking about, I suppose you are halfway to another child but where's the time gone? Goodness. You're probably thinking the same thing. No wonder you're sounding a little panicked. Still, you'll probably find coping with two easier than you're expecting. You've had plenty of practice with everything like nappies and baths and it won't take long to get slick again.

On the other hand, not to worry you or anything...

Every child is different.

You'll know some mistakes to avoid but, chances are, some of the things that went smoothly first time round will be more of a bumpy ride this time.

Fraser had terrible trouble sleeping and it got to the point where I had to share the spare bed with him and cuddle him most of the night. Since it was a single bed and neither of us is small, I tended to wake up both tired and hunched and then lurch around the house like Quasimodo, gibbering about coffee. After a year of that, it was a case of either leaving him to scream himself to sleep or constructing my own bell tower and just going with the whole tormented mutant look. Fortunately, a couple of nights of hard hearts and stubborn wills sorted things and he's gone to bed fine ever since.

After our experiences with Fraser, we were keen to do better with Lewis. He got hankies to clutch for comfort (replaceable and easily portable!), he wasn't allowed to sleep so much during the day and he was left to get himself to sleep from an earlier age. We also used Ashton and Parsons tooth powder. It all worked great. He slept twelve hours a night from a year. He didn't sleep at all during the day by that point but I didn't care - we had evenings and I'd almost entirely lost the desire to go bell-ringing. We smugly believed that we knew what we were doing.

Then Marie arrived.

She never slept well to start with but teething was disastrous. She wouldn't go to bed until ten or eleven at night and then often woke up and cried for a couple of hours at three in the morning and then got up at eight (if not before). I dreamed of the days when I felt as agile as a hunchback. My limbs seized up and I took on the twisted appearance of a gargoyle. I sprinkled coffee directly onto my Sugar Puffs.

Nothing worked. She had muslin cloths to cuddle but she merely grew to need them as well as me to get to sleep. She spat out Calpol. I managed to get the tooth powder in her once but that was only by taking it out of the sachet and putting it on a spoon. That took her by surprise. The next time, she saw it coming and blew it all in my face. I couldn't cut down on her daytime sleeping because, well, it wasn't like she ever really slept then either.

There was no alternative but to go for the screaming again. It was desperate, but we were pretty sure it would work...

I had to leave Fraser to yell in the cot for nearly five hours before he gave up and went to sleep. (Going in to check on him made things worse, by the way). Marie only lasted a minute and half before becoming so upset that she was copiously sick all over herself, her sheets and the carpet. This happened every time we tried. It was more work than cuddling her to sleep. We gave up.

My skin turned hard and grey. If I stood still outside for too long then pigeons started to nest in my hair. Passing stonemasons attempted to kidnap me and stick me to a church.

It was only when she was over two and able to be reasoned with that we had any success. One night, when she'd been up for hours, I put her in her bed, told her to go to sleep and then stayed in the room with her. Every time she gagged, I told her to calm down. After three hours, it was time to get up but at least she hadn't vomited. After a few nights of doing this at bedtime and whenever she woke up during the night, she got the idea.

Life's been a lot easier since. I can now walk without creaking. Water no longer pours out my mouth when it rains.

We'll know what to do next time...

(Yeah, right...)

Keep your wits about you. Try different things. Get some sleep now.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), sleep

 
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9:13 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Toddler Wars!

Dear Dave,

As you'll know, one of the primary qualifications for being a housedad is a high boredom threshold. You have to be able to play Snakes and Ladders over and over again for several days, and not mind watching Nemo being found fifty times in a month. Of course, boundless energy allowing you think up and facilitate exciting new activities on a daily basis is a valid alternative but, for most of us, survival is a much more realistic objective. If the kids are happy, just go with it.

I've found many ways of coping with the tedium of a wet afternoon at home. For instance, encouraging a child to make the task in hand massively more complicated for me provides fantastic mental exercise. You should try it. Why bother with two-player Monopoly when three cuddly toys can join in? Play should not proceed clockwise but in alphabetical order of hair colour. Everyone should swap playing pieces after each game. Just attempting to remember whether to move the boot or the car next will keep you busy.

Another option is to put excess brain resources into critical analysis. Are the Teletubbies' favourite things an expression of their individual characters or part of the definition of those characters? In what way is Hungry Hippos a metaphor for life? If Pui and Sid from CBeebies got together, what would their children be like? Who decided Snakes and Ladders was fun? What does Tinky-Winky normally keep in his bag? Where's the nearest nursery? What do Fimbles taste like? Who clears up after Clifford the Big Red Dog? Why doesn't Wily Coyote order KFC? What bearing do the underlying suppositions of Scooby Doo have on our understanding of eschatological events? And why isn't it teatime yet?

This is fun but can become obsessive (and thus scary) after a while. You wake up screaming from Tweenies-inspired dreams where small children transform into puppets whenever they go outside. As for making things complicated, sometimes simplification is the way to go. Turns out toddlers can be persuaded to play Snakes and Ladders with imaginary dice which removes a great deal of the need for concentration. (It also allows things to be ended abruptly when sanity requires - "Look! Twenty-seven! I win.").

When boredom threatens, I normally just put my brain into neutral and let it wander wherever. This is usually nowhere very much, by way of Nicole Kidman, biscuits, the probable length of time it will take for the PS3 to halve in price, what to make for tea and whether, if I close my eyes for a second, I'll be able to open them again. Sometimes, however, inspiration strikes.

I was at parent and toddler the other day, drifting away to a make-believe amusement arcade where the games are free and chocolate digestives are served by Australian movie stars, when Marie gave me an idea. She was busy collecting a pile of toys in the corner of the room and screaming at any other children who went near them. "Mine! It's my trolley! You not touch it! It's mine!" Of course, while she was busy defending the trolley from one child, another would blithely sneak behind her and make off with a large plastic duck. Most parents might well have thought something along the lines of 'I should go and make her share,' but I know that's a waste of effort. I thought, 'There's a computer game in that...'

Think of it:

You are a pre-school general. Recruit a gang of under-fours by giving them toys covered in drool. Send them out to collect everything that isn't nailed down. Choose between devoting resources to protecting the loot or locating more. Set interfering grown-ups on your opponents. Slap opposing forces about with alphabet bricks; run them over in pedalled vehicles; put Play-Doh in their hair. Get allies to distract adults by climbing on piles of chairs and balancing precariously. Throw the toys into the pram (and make a run for it). Fight, cry and unexpectedly fall over. Unleash screaming tantrums. Rule the playgroup. Do it all in Toddler Wars!

Trust me, it's the way forward for strategy games. No more geek-pleasing space opera conflicts but a setting which people can relate to. Finally, AI where allies fail to do what they're told and enemies inexplicably walk into obstacles is no longer a bug but a feature. And then there's all the sequels: Seven-year-olds with Big Sticks, Buckfast Teenagers, Office Ambush, Mid-life Mayhem, Pensioners at a Jumble Sale and Zimmers at Dawn!

It's brilliant. Who says not enough sleep and too much Snakes and Ladders addles your brain? I'm off to write to the makers of Command & Conquer.

Hope you're keeping yourself entertained.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), computer games, playgroup

 
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10:40 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  TAB

Dear Dave,

Thank you for your continued interest in the Patented Parental rePeater, my invention which takes the work out of being ignored by endlessly repeating whatever a parent just said.

As you point out, I did promise that the Triple-P would be available for purchase by now. Unfortunately I've run into difficulties and am now in legal dispute with a company looking to produce an item called the Toddler Answer Back (TAB). Here's an extract from some of their marketing material:

Children!!!! TAB is for you. Fed up of repeating yourself because you're not getting what you want? Tired of saying the same thing AGAIN AND AGAIN! Want the power without the effort of actually pestering?

Get TAB (TM).

Hang it round your neck, go about your daily mayhem and then, at the touch of a brightly coloured button, have TAB repeat the last thing you said. Press a different button and keep it saying the same thing over and over and over until THE END OF TIME!!!!!! The longer it goes on, the louder and whinier it will get. Everyone will hear but only dogs will understand! Your parents will give you ANYTHING just to get the noise to stop.

You need TAB.

Comes complete with 127 pre-programmed sayings, including:

• No.
• Heh!
• I want it.
• I need toilet.
• Wake up!
• I don't want it.
• So?
• I really need toilet.
• I want mummy do it.
• I want daddy do it.
• I want Barney do it.
• I do it myself.
• I REALLY need toilet.
• I'm not wearing it.
• Why?
• You not touch my TAB.
• I don't need toilet anymore.
• I hurt my tongue.
• You rub it better.
• Look at me!
• NOW!
• I need dry socks.
• Turn your hearing aid on. (For use on grandparents who are supposed to be helping out but have in fact opted for a crafty nap).

Save your own annoying sayings and noises:

• Prove to your parents how loudly they snore.
• Play electronic nursery rhymes back slightly out of sync with the original toy.
• Disable voice-activated security systems with ease.
• Drive people insane - set TAB to copy whatever they say!
• Record calls for help, hide TAB in common household appliances and watch your parents panic.
• Mimic the phone, the doorbell and the fire alarm.
• Use built-in voice masking wizardry to argue in the style of Darth Vader, Yoda, Beach Fun Barbie or a Dalek!

TAB also has several special modes:

• Extra Screechy - for use in church
• Firm but Polite - for use on other people's parents
• Extra Loud - for cinemas, funerals and early mornings

TAB is waterproof, shockproof, easily portable, resistant to sledgehammers and has a battery-life of between 6 months and 25 years (dependent on the number, age and stubbornness of your parents). Buy it now!

TAB - It complains so you don't have to.

(Batteries not included).

Obviously, I think I have a strong case that they've ripped off my idea and subverted it, but things aren't looking good - their lawyers are smaller than mine. The law firm itself is large but the actual lawyers are small and, in my experience, small lawyers are the most dangerous. (Think Tom Cruise in The Firm). Still, I'm hopeful we can come to some form of mutually beneficial arrangement. I'm thinking a dual pack containing both a Triple-P and a TAB might work. Then both devices could be set going, sealed in a lead-lined box and buried in the back garden. This would leave families free to play together happily without disagreement, knowing all the pointless arguing was being taken care of elsewhere. Peace and harmony would be assured.

If only...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1)

 
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  In memory of the changing unit

Dear Dave,

The changing unit has gone.

No, I'm sorry, you're going to have to be more impressed than that. I'll write it again. The changing unit has gone. I hope you clapped politely that time. (Count yourself lucky - if you were American I would have to insist on you punching the air while making a loud whooping sound).

A chapter has ended. I've been changing nappies on that unit almost every day for seven years. That's a lot of nappies. Three children for two and a half years each. Assuming an average of six nappies a day per child, that's over 16,000 nappies. That's a lot of nappies. OK, I didn't change all of them, but I changed a heck of a lot of them. At least 12,000, I'd say. That's still a lot of nappies.

Thinking back, it seems like only yesterday I first placed Fraser on that changing unit and gingerly investigated the small swamp he had wrapped round his nether-regions. So many memories! How about the time I was in the middle of dealing with him and heard a tinkling noise six feet away on the other side of the room but spent several seconds wondering like an idiot what it might be? Or the time he peed in his own ear (and he cried when I laughed)? Or the time Lewis spewed forth copious liquid evil from his backside that went everywhere (and he laughed when I cried)?

Ah, happy times...

You've probably blanked a lot of the messiest moments of your own experience from your mind but, with a baby on the way, they're all going to come back to you pretty soon. I remember, in the early days of being a new parent, talking a great deal about the contents of nappies. Fraser would produce and then Sarah and I and any unfortunate visitors would gather round and peer closely, trying to discern his health from the splatter. It was like reading tealeaves. ("Ah, yes, I see much tribulation in your future, young man. You will meet a tall, dark stranger. Then you will poo on him.")

Second time around, things are much more everyday. You know what to expect.

The first week is the worst. For some reason babies come supplied full of tar which they exude through their bottoms for several days. What's with that? Then comes fudge sauce followed by chicken tikka masala. It eventually settles down to something fairly normal on a good day and end-of-term stew on a bad one.

End-of-term stew is the final meal made by hard-up students before going home for the holidays. Everyone clears out their cupboard and bungs the remaining contents in a pot. Typical ingredients include peas, corn, Shredded Wheat, a hairclip, four crushed breadsticks, half a sausage, seventeen pence in loose change and some raisins. Grated seaweed is added for that extra special aroma and then the whole lot is boiled up in thick gravy. Strangely, the results are less than appetising and the students sneak round to my house and dispose of the slimy mess down the back of a nappy. This is why my children have often been seen waddling around with a surprised look on their faces just before Christmas and Easter.

Well, that's all behind me now. There will still be accidents to be dealt with and I daresay I'll be wiping Marie's bottom for another couple of years but hopefully my days of wrestling a stinky toddler are over. There'll be no more need for nursery rhymes to stop them kicking me in the face. (It used to be I could get the kids to calm down by singing to them. Now the only thing which works is promising to stop singing). We're moving on...


The changing unit. RIP.

A friend and his mate came round today to take the changing unit away. It has a good home to go to but I found myself oddly sad to see it leave. They lifted it up, revealing dents worn in the carpet, and a tear welled in my eye. It had served me faithfully and seen me through many unfortunate crises. As they carried it out the door, I patted it goodbye and watched it taken out of my life forever.

Then I went and washed my hands.

Twice.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS I'll stop going on about bodily waste now...

Labels: children (vol.1)

 
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  Mind the puddle

Dear Dave,

Thanks for your sympathy over the ubiquitous and extensive puddles of pee which have overrun my home since Marie has stopped wearing nappies. Bearing this situation in mind, I'm surprised you want potty training advice from me but I'll do my best.

We had it pretty easy with Fraser. He has a bladder the size of Iowa and sphincters of steel. We ended up having to toilet train him because he was holding it in for seventeen or eighteen hours at a time and then peeing his nappy off with the explosive power of a Super Soaker. It was useful for putting out small fires but ultimately more messy than teaching him how to use a potty. The main problem we had with training him was actually getting him to perform. He had to be sat on the potty for ten minutes being constantly entertained with stories about Teletubbies before he was able to relax enough to release the floodgates. Once he got the hang of it, though, he only needed the toilet twice a day and barely had an accident. He went from thinking a potty was a funny kind of hat to no nappies whatsoever in about ten days. Easy.

Lewis wasn't much harder. He got the hang of using the potty really fast. All that was needed was to sit him down and close the bathroom door and he performed. Bizarrely, he then wanted to stay there for ten minutes being constantly entertained with stories about Teletubbies but at least the primary goal was always achieved quickly. Closing the bathroom door seemed to become a trigger, in fact. We discovered this one day when he took his pants down and closed the door himself before sitting on the toilet. (Nasty).

We thought he had a smaller bladder and needed to go more often so we had him in pull-ups for a while because he was more prone to accidents. Then, not long after he was in normal pants, we went down to my parents by train and he decided he wasn't going to the toilet again until we got to granny's. He decided this at the station in Edinburgh. My parents live in Norfolk. This did not seem like a good idea... We were nervous... We kept taking him to the toilet but he refused to perform for the entire six hour journey to Norwich. After that, it was another forty-five minutes in my parents' car. Their new car. The kind of car that has a TV to show you where you're reversing... We were nervous... But he made it all the way to their house without so much as a little dance. Go figure.

We didn't worry so much about taking him places after that. Except to get his shoes checked. Something about the prospect of new footwear seemed to irritate his bladder. For months he was bound to wet himself within twenty-four hours of visiting the children's shoe department of John Lewis. And I don't mean a little accident where he needed fresh pants, I mean the kind of accident where I had to stuff his trainers with newspaper. On the occasions where we'd actually had to buy new shoes, this was somewhat annoying.

The boys were both pretty keen to get out of nappies. Given the opportunity to use the potty and plenty of encouragement when they tried, they responded quickly. Marie just hasn't been so interested. We considered a chart where she would get to put on a sticker every time she succeeded in using the potty but she's the kind of kid who would abuse the system and end up producing a tiny amount every ten minutes just to get a sticker. Instead, we cut off her supply of Numberjacks if she refuses to go to the toilet every hour or two. This has worked reasonably well and she's getting the idea. The frequency of mishaps has calmed down but we're still getting up to three a day. Their scale has also reduced because she's keen not to be hosed down in the shower. We'll get there eventually. We know she can do it because she's going dry overnight. She just needs to apply herself a bit.

Some of her new pants have numbers on and this is helping to concentrate her mind. She mutters to herself, "Numberjacks for watching. Not for peeing and pooing on." Can't argue with that.

Every child is different. Good luck with Sam. I'm impressed he can write his own name already. Hopefully he'll stop doing it in such an unfortunate fashion on your clean laundry soon.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1)

 
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  A new dawn

Dear Dave,

Happy Easter!

I had planned on writing about this being a special Easter for me. Things have been going pretty well lately. I've had several months of decent sleep. This correspondence has given me a bit of purpose outside of direct parental action. The days are getting longer. An end to seven years of nappies looks like a possibility. Sunday is here. The stone has been rolled away from the entrance to the tomb. Death is defeated. God is with us! It all feels like a new beginning...

That's what I'd been planning to write, anyway. Then I caught a stinking cold, the kids caught it too, the potty-training led to a household sock shortage and I felt so tired that I dozed off in a softplay. I leant against a foam shape and rested my eyes for a moment. The next I knew, I was dreaming of a nightmare world of primary colours where small children roam free and there is an ever-present danger of drowning in a pit full of plastic balls. I awoke to a reality that was very similar except a five-year-old that I had never seen before was barking at me in a Germanic language and prodding me with an enormous padded snail. For one hazy, flu-filled moment I thought I had fallen into a psychology experiment, a foreign arts film or, worst-case scenario, a painting by Edvard Munch. It wasn't good. I rounded up my children and headed home.

Since then, I've been muddling along as best I can until I'm well, looking to just get through each day without my daughter leaking too much.

Marie gives me various indicators that everything is not going entirely to plan:

• She points out the obvious. "Your socks wet, Daddy!"
• She exclaims, "Pee!" as if wondering where it came from and what it's doing in her socks.
• She lets out an, "Oh, no," giving the impression she's forgotten to pay her Visa bill this month. Or remembered that she has no clean socks left.
• She mutters, "I go to toilet. I not go in shower." This thought is, of course, akin to shutting the stable door after the horse has urinated (in its socks).
• She smiles to herself and then wiggles her bottom as if settling down into a nice warm cushion. Mmmmmm. Squishy... (Doesn't require fresh socks, at least).
• She points at the pee streaming out her shoes.

It's a long time since a toxic spill around the house was a disaster or even particularly unpleasant but cleaning it up is an effort I could do without when I'm ill. Quite often when I tell people that I'm a housedad they ask me something along the lines of, "So you enjoy that then?" There's pressure to justify my existence by saying, "Yes, it's fantastic. It's a fulfilling roller-coaster ride of discovery, challenge, fun and hugs. I'd recommend it to anyone." To say anything else might be to confirm their suspicion that a stay at home dad is against all the laws of God and man. To suggest that children can be ungrateful, hard work and irritating can cause shock and outrage. The truth is, though, that there are days in any job when things could be better. Being ill, dealing with ill children through the night and then trying to hold it all together during the day isn't challenging - it's exhausting.

This time, the trauma should be over quickly, however. A day or two, and we'll all be well. Another week or so and Marie will have the idea. Then the changing unit can go and there'll be room for me to have a desk again - somewhere for me to sneak off to in order to write, surf and play Half-Life. Hurrah!

There have been times in the past few years, though, when it has seemed like the cloud would never pass. It was like the despair of a perpetual Good Friday. I went months at a time without a proper night of sleep. I had to cope with a wife with post-natal depression. I had to deal with depression myself. I couldn't see an end to it. Only trusting to God that there would be an end, kept me getting out of bed.

Being a housedad is fantastic. It is a fulfilling roller-coaster ride of discovery, challenge, fun and hugs. But I'd never recommend it to everyone. Being a dad, never mind a housedad, can be tough. We have to be prepared to admit that, talk to those around us and get support when we need it. Just knowing we're not alone can be a great help. Take care of yourself, OK?

All things considered and fleeting set-backs aside, this is still a special Easter for me. The issues I face as a parent may well become more difficult as the kids get older but a lot of the hard graft is past. (Oh, goodness, decent sleep makes so much difference!) I'll get more and more time and space to myself. I'll have some energy to spare. I might even have dry socks. Wouldn't that be great?

All the best to the family. You are in our thoughts and prayers.

Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace from the Son of Peace to you.
This Easter and always...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), christianity, depression, housedad (vol.1)

 
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  The battle for the remote control

Dear Dave,

Following on from our recent correspondence about the effects of kids' TV, I have a confession to make. I have to admit that Marie is addicted to Numberjacks. Just as I can't function in the morning without my cup of coffee, she needs her fix of single-digit superheroes.

In case you haven't seen it, it's a mixture of CGI and live-action, involving the numbers zero to nine living in a sofa and being teleported out to help people who are experiencing maths related problems created by villains such as the Puzzler, the Numbertaker and Spooky Spoon. It sounds weird but the reality is pretty straightforward. The characters look like numbers and they're named after numbers so kids learn to recognise numbers. (If you want weird then check out In the Night Garden which is also on CBeebies - that's weirder than discovering your eyebrows have turned purple or than finding a tube of toothpaste embedded in your cheese. Lewis was watching it the other day and asked me, "Why did Upsy Daisy kiss the Ninky Nonk?" I honestly answered that I had absolutely no idea).

Anyway, if Marie doesn't get Numberjacks at regular intervals then she starts to get grumpy and uncooperative. Leave her too long and there's anger and tears. Eventually she turns into a quivering, whimpering wreck. Flick on the TiVo, however, and it's instant smiles and little squeals of relief. Then her eyes glaze over and she stares in rapt attention for twelve or so minutes until the episode finishes and she demands another one.

The boys were the same when they were younger. We ended up watching the Scooby Doo movie two or three times a day for a month at one point. I wasn't complaining, though, because (a) it has Sarah Michelle Gellar in it and (b) it kept them occupied for quite a while. Having to start up five episodes an hour is more of a chore while constantly reminding me how little 'real' parenting I'm doing. On top of that, she's not always entirely sure what's fact or fiction. She knows numberjacks are only 'in the telly' but if snot starts dripping out her nose then she's convinced it's the Problem Blob's fault. She was scared to go to bed last week because she thought the Shape Japer was waiting in her room. ("He bad! I not want light off!")

This leaves me with a dilemma. Which makes me a worse parent - letting her watch and risk her living in fear that an animated miscreant is going to turn her into a triangle, or not letting her watch and risk her being so miserable that she makes herself vomit? I'm not sure of the answer. On a practical level, however, not having to clean up sick always makes a course of action more attractive.

I had been quite smug about controlling my childrens' viewing up to this point. Our TV set up is so complicated they can't change the channel themselves and so I have control. As what they watch is limited to start with, I've only had to put a stop to a few things on Cartoon Network. There hasn't been much conflict.

On the occasions when I've discussed censorship with other parents, it's usually computer games we've talked about. On the one hand, there are people who don't realise how much games have progressed since the days of Pac-Man and don't realise just how unsuitable some of them are for children. On the other, sensationalist news coverage singles out violent games above any other medium as the root of all kinds of evil. As a keen gamer myself I've tried to point out the middle ground. Games have age ratings on them just like films. These are suitability ratings based on content such as sex and swearing. (I've overheard confused parents in shops think they were difficulty ratings. '3+' means it doesn't have nudity or terrifying brain-eating, chainsaw-wielding zombies; it doesn't mean a toddler will be able to play it).

Obviously, there's room for some parental discretion. In my household I do the games buying and it shouldn't be too hard working out what's suitable for my kids' ages and maturity as they grow older. I've already had to stop Fraser from playing Paper Mario 2 - he's good at the fights but for me to sit there for thirty hours reading the text wouldn't be fair on my other kids. He wasn't happy but we got through it. Am I going to stop him playing Grand Theft Auto until he's eighteen, when, here in Scotland, he could get married without my permission at sixteen? I don't know. Still, armed with reviews and my own gaming experience, I should be able to make a decision and argue my case.

As I said, I was smug. Then some thoughts crossed my mind. Forty TV channels enter my house but all I watch is Dr Who, 24 and three flavours of CSI. I can't remember the last non-animated film I saw at the cinema. My CD collection stops at 1997. My video rental card has bio-degraded. The library thinks I'm dead. There are... Oh...

One day they're going to figure out how to work the TiVo remote. I can't maintain control forever. Let's face it, I'll have little idea what my kids are listening to, watching or reading. They'll probably have unsuitable friends as well. Games are only a small part of what they will be exposed to. Every practical detail of drug use and benefit fraud I picked up as a teenager, I gathered from my parents' Daily Mail and from News at Ten (thanks, Trev!). Most episodes of EastEnders portray more lying and cheating than any game I've ever played. For every book full of enlightenment, there are three biographies of footballers. Shielding children and teens from difficult issues is impossible without solitary confinement. It won't make good kids anyway, just ignorant ones.

I guess, in some ways, our job is going to get harder as our children get older. Difficult issues should be a regular part of conversation. We need to talk honestly and openly to our children about everything - sex, death, violence, drugs, sexuality, God, relationships, anger, money, failure, love, forgiveness, everything. We need to listen to them and discuss these issues. In short, we need to fill them full of real sense so that the nonsense can't take hold.

Which is easier said than done...

Marie's still allowed to watch Numberjacks but we had to talk to her about it and convince her everything's OK. We reasoned with her as best we could but played along a little as well - we told her the Shape Japer had gone far away on a train. This cheered her up a lot. "He lost in tunnel," she said and went to bed. Crisis averted for now.

It's a start, I suppose.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), computer games, parenthacks, TV

 
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11:10 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Teletubbies save the world

Dear Dave,

I'm sorry to hear that the teletubbies are destroying your sanity. I remember when Fraser was young and I happily got to watch re-runs of ER all day mixed in with Working Lunch and an occasional documentary about Alexander the Great or quantum mechanics. Then he got a bit older and emergency chest surgery ceased to be suitable background noise for playtime. Not long after that, he realised that I had Dipsy and co. held captive within black rectangles of plastic and could make them perform at any time simply by feeding them to the video machine. Overnight I went from learning about the fundamental properties of matter to watching a teddy-bear tap-dance. On loop.

When we were children, television didn't start until nine in the morning, there were only three channels and kids' TV was restricted to lunchtime, teatime and Saturday mornings. This was obviously to the benefit of parents, giving them peace to get meals ready during the week and to pretend to be sleeping at the weekend. Now television never stops, there are dozens of channels and kids' TV is only ever moments away.

That's not to say that my children watch more television than I did as a child, it's just most of what I watched ranged from desperate, e.g. the testcard, to astonishingly inappropriate, e.g. an Open University lecture on human biology. The problem isn't too much TV, it's that control has been given to the child. By the power of CBeebies, there's no reason for them to put up with boring adult telly. By the power of rewind, there's no reason for them to stay glued to the set and not go disturbing 'sleeping' adults.

Deprived of both sex and TV, adults are bound to go slightly crazy. Add to this being constantly bombarded with The Fimbles, Tweenies and Fireman Sam, and hallucinations are almost a given. I've found myself imagining episodes of CSI: Balamory ("We made casts of the tyre impressions on Archie's head and I have to say it's not looking good for you, Penny."), Dr Who in Toy Town ("They've exterminated Big Ears!") and Jack Bauer the Builder ("Tell me where the hammer is, Spud. Tell me now and I won't have to hurt you..."). Then there's the episode of Come Outside where Auntie Mabel, the middle-aged spinster, does a musical number about sewage. (No, hang on, that really happened).

Maybe I should just throw the TV out the window like Super~Mum says...

No, actually that's a little drastic. TV gives kids some of their social identity. I know this because I spent a year in the States as a teenager. There were many occasions when I felt far away from home but the one that sticks in my head was sitting around in History class discussing shows we'd loved as kids. I'd never seen Sesame Street and never cared about Mickey Mouse. They'd never heard of Mr Benn. They were all able to share together and forget their differences. It was as if they were four again. I, however, was more different than before. There was a new cultural barrier between us.

On the flipside, it turned out that the cutest girl in class had spent a few of her younger years in Britain. We paired off and reminisced about the episode of Bagpuss with the chocolate biscuit machine. We bonded. Shared memories of kids' TV brought friendship and snogging. Kids' TV is good.

Thanks to this experience, I believe that the Teletubbies are in fact the best hope we have for world peace. I know you hate them now but Sam will soon find something else to be fixated on. You will move on to Tikkabilla. The Teletubbies, however, will continue to be shown all over the world. By adding localised film-clips they can infiltrate any nation. There are so many episodes that they will pad out daytime telly forever. No child will entirely escape. Eventually these children, our children, will grow up and be in charge.

I imagine a point in the future when the world is edging towards war and the General Assembly of the United Nations meets for one last attempt to avert disaster. No common ground can be found, however. Voices rise. Fingers move edgily towards buttons. Suddenly Nicole Kidman realises the only way to save the day. She races up to the control booth and switches on BBC7. CBeebies radio blares out over the public address system.

"Who spilled the tubby custard?" says a well-spoken, male voice and hundreds of interpreters babble out translations.

There is a pause. Then, as one, the ambassadors of the world respond in their native tongues but there is no need to translate. Creed and colour no longer matter. For once, each person understands their brothers and sisters around them with perfect clarity. United, the people of Earth cry out, "It was Po! Po spilled the tubby custard."

Then they give each other a big hug.

From that single moment of shared identity will come new hope. Everybody will have their turn to wear the skirt and there will be tubby toast for everyone...

Or maybe I'm being too much of an optimist. Feel free to fall back on Plan B:


There was the sound of an approaching scooter and Ed waited patiently for his next victim. The Teletubby infestation would soon be dealt with...

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), favourite, TV

 
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1:10 AM - Permanent Link - 2 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Keeping up with SuperMum

Dear Dave,

You are not a rubbish parent. Just because some mum you met has her kids signed up for three stimulating activities every day doesn't mean you are a lazy waste of space. Who knows how much help she's getting, how much she's exaggerating and what potent cocktail of medication she's taking? As a full-time parent with a small child, you are probably working an eighty hour week and suffering from sleep deprivation. You don't need to add guilt to that. Even good parents need to let Scooby Doo take some of the burden of childcare from time to time. Look after yourself. Sneak off for a coffee when you can. Have quiet days. Don't worry you haven't taken Sam to a museum for a few months or even left the house since Sunday. Do the amount of stuff that keeps you and your family sane and happy. Some stimulation is great. Too much just creates tired, crotchety know-it-alls. That's not really something to aim for...

I took the children out Saturday morning. We went to the kids' club at the cinema in the shopping centre. This is fantastic. It's cheap and it counts as getting them out of the house away from the TV even though it's really just taking them on a bus to an absolutely enormous TV and then giving them sweets.

Marie's still a little young and so I dropped her off in the centre's creche for a couple of hours. I'd normally leave her at home but Sarah had to go into work. Manager Steve is trying to impress the top brass and for some reason he believes doing stupid overtime is more impressive than actually getting the job done without needing to do overtime. Sarah is seriously considering using Voodoo on him.

I went into the cinema with the boys and there was an unusually long queue. That there was a queue at all at quarter to ten on a Saturday morning was fairly strange. Still, we waited... and waited... and waited. The film was nearly starting before we got anywhere near the front and found out what was going on. Just ahead of us were a group of nine-year-olds and ahead of them was a mum and her seven-year-old. The mum got to the desk and asked, "What's on?" My mind boggled. Who turns up at the cinema with a young child without checking the listings? More than that, the woman had been standing in a queue for fifteen minutes with nothing to look at but a vast bank of brightly illuminated screens telling her what was on. Nonetheless, the man behind the desk patiently explained there was a choice between Cars, Deck the Halls and Barnyard. The woman discussed this choice loudly with her son. They settled on Cars, bought their tickets and the queue finally moved forwards. The three boys reached the desk. "What's on?" asked the tallest. The ticket guy patiently explained their choice again, although he had to be a little louder this time in order to be heard above the noise of me banging my head against a pillar. The youths then had an argument about whether they wanted to see a Christmas film in March. Eventually they decided they didn't. They bought tickets for Barnyard and then walked off without them.

The ticket guy and I shook our heads at each other. He called them back, gave them their tickets and then it was our turn. "Three for Barnyard," I said, handing over the money. He politely gave me my tickets and the correct change. I have to suspect they weren't paying him anywhere near enough.

We had a quick (but expensive) stop at the pick'n'mix display, grabbed some popcorn and then hurried into the film. We were just in time to be mildly entertained for an hour and a half.

Last year was the year of the CGI movie. I can think of seven without even trying; most of them involving cute, fluffy creatures. Of course Pixar used to be the masters of this kind of thing, with only Shrek being memorable among all the wannabees of the computer generated world. Then Cars came along. I can only imagine how the planning meeting for that must have gone:

Disney Exec: We'd like something with more obvious marketing potential. You know, something where the toy is actually on the screen. I was thinking maybe Toy Story 3.
Pixar Producer: Look, no. I'm not going to tell you again.
Disney Exec: Sorry, sorry. You don't want to sully your creative integrity. I get it. How about a film about cars then. Kids love cars.
Pixar Producer: Yeah, maybe. I can't think of a good story off-hand, though.
Disney Exec: Just recycle something.
Pixar Producer: Er... Did you have something particular in mind?
Disney Exec: You could remake Days of Thunder.
Pixar Producer: That's a little obvious. We might get sued.
Disney Exec: OK, how about Doc Hollywood.
Pixar Producer: Yes, that's definitely... less obvious. How about we kind of mix them together?
Disney Exec: Sounds great. Have a six figure bonus. Oh, and can you make it dull, at least half an hour too long and impenetrably American?
Pixar Producer: Er, why?
Disney Exec: No reason.
Pixar Producer: OK, I'll see what I can do. (He slinks off, wishing he'd agreed to another Toy Story).
Disney Exec: You do that. (A week later, he jumps ship and goes off to plan Sony's PlayStation 3 marketing strategy).

Barnyard was OK but nothing special and it gave the impression of having been created by townies. The farmer is a vegan so it's really more of an animal sanctuary he runs than a farm. Also, the male cows have udders. Never mind that the cows walk around on two legs when nobody's looking, it's the udders that break my suspension of disbelief. Ho well. My kids are convinced that milk comes from supermarkets anyway.

At least the moral message of the film was clear: 'A strong man stands up for himself; a stronger man stands up for others.' Again, this coming from a cow was a little odd but I had the kids repeating it on the way home.

We collected Marie from the creche and were about to set off for the bus when a gaggle of smiling, highly-scrubbed children rushed over to us, closely followed by their immaculate, beaming mother. It was Julia from our street, and her kids. They all seemed delighted to see us.

Julia is known as SuperMum in our house. (If there was some form of punctuation which signified a roll of the eyes when saying a word then SuperMum would definitely have it. Maybe I should invent some. How about Super~Mum?) She has four children under the age of ten WHOM SHE HOME~SCHOOLS. She also has a successful career as an artist. Last time I asked how she was, she brought me round a pie to say thankyou. Not only had she made the pie herself, she had grown the apples as a project with her kids. The only thing me and my kids can grow is sunflowers. (Our pies taste terrible).

Super~Mum's most annoying trait, however, is that she constantly suggests I perform heroic feats of parenting. Kids bored? Take them on a daytrip to Aberdeen. Kids not eating? Cook them a traditional Bolivian meal. Kids afraid of a bit of dirt? Go on a family pot-holing expedition. Kids watching too much TV? Tip the TV out the window and enroll them in an acrobatics class instead.

These ideas are, of course, insane. The very thought of attempting any of them with my three children makes we want to go and have a lie down in a darkened room. Merely contemplating them sends dizzying tendrils of madness scurrying though my brain. Unfortunately, these aren't the crazy witterings of an American child psychologist or of a creepy elderly gentleman on the bus. Julia has actually done these things herself. With four children. I know this for a fact - I salvaged a battered flatscreen from her shrubbery and fixed it up and now her kids are always lurking outside our lounge window desperately trying to catch a glimpse of Scooby Doo. Since our lounge is one storey up, I can only assume that the acrobatics class is going well.

There were a lot of greetings and polite questions and then it transpired that they were going bowling. We were invited to join them. Before I knew it, I was wearing slippy shoes and trying to prevent children from dropping heavy spherical objects on my toes. I don't really know how it happened. Julia just didn't seem to understand how an unplanned excursion might be in any way troublesome or tiring. It didn't help that Fraser loves bowling and jumped up and down at the prospect. If I hadn't gone, I would have felt both rubbish and guilty.

I shouldn't have gone. It was a nightmare. I had to help the boys bowl while keeping Marie entertained and listening to Julia regale me with the joys of eating Bolivian snacks down a mineshaft. My multi-tasking skills were tested to their limits. Fraser kept bowling too slowly, the ball drifting to a halt against the bumper halfway down the lane. Fortunately, our lane was right at the end so I could walk down beside it and give the ball a shove. Unfortunately, the final time I did this I turned round to discover that, despite being told not to several~times, Fraser had taken his second bowl. This was bad. That he'd decided to bowl his sister was somewhat worse. A blur of fluffy pink whizzed towards me, arms outstretched and yelling, "I get strike! I get strike!"

I grabbed a fistful of knitted jumper as it went past and yanked Marie to safety. "You not carry me," she complained. "I am ball!"

We managed to get away soon after that but I was shattered. I flicked on Scooby Doo as soon as we got home and lay on the sofa for a rest. A couple of hours later, Julia popped round with a pie to say thankyou for the lovely time. I felt the need to stand up to her; to explain that it hadn't been that lovely really; to suggest she consider the feelings of other parents slightly more carefully; to get her to give her own kids a break. I chickened out, though. Instead, I invited her and the kids along to Scary Karen's parent and toddler group.

I know this was bad and wrong. I'm hoping their evil superpowers will somehow neutralise each other but there's a good chance that their very meeting will create a rift in space and time that will cause the entire universe to unravel. I'll try to be a stronger man next time.

Get some sleep while you can.

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1)

 
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  Big Friendly Daddy

Dear Dave,

You're right - you do wonder what they're going to remember.

You slave away day after day. You get them out of bed, dress them, feed them, keep them entertained, undress them and then get them back into bed again. You wash up, wipe down and hoover around. You play games, run about and get head-butted in the privates. You pour your very life and soul into keeping them happy and turning them out right. It's hard work... You kind of want them to remember something of that. If nothing else, it should count in your favour when they're choosing your nursing home.

Sadly, however, Sam's memory of early childhood will probably be so hazy that he will believe that he was raised by Bob the Builder and a crack band of Teletubbies. Your years of sacrifice will be forgotten as he smiles wistfully at happy memories of talking machines, Tubby custard and enormous rabbits. He will build a shrine to Laa-Laa and you will spend your twilight years in a coalshed in King's Lynn.

I'm sorry to say that your future is bleak. I think mine might be worse, though. Not only am I going to be there in that shed with you, my kids will skimp on the extras. You at least will get food and a blanket, I will get to starve in my underpants. Every so often a little goblin will come round and poke me with a stick.

I mean, Marie's two-and-a-half and she already thinks I'm an imbecile. Today I was talking to her about how we'd been on a bus at the weekend. "No, Daddy," she replied. "We go IN bus." It was a hard one to argue and doing so only made me appear more of an idiot.

I then got a further insight into how she views me. She insisted she wanted to watch something she referred to as Me & You. She started hunting through the stack of DVDs but couldn't find it. "We watch Me & You!" she shouted desperately. I had no idea what she was talking about so I tried asking lots of questions about the programme - what happens, who's in it, that kind of thing. "We.. watch... Me... &... You!" she replied slower and more loudly, as if speaking to a foreigner she perceived as slightly dim. This went on for awhile.

Eventually I discovered an animated version of Roald Dahl's The BFG (Big Friendly Giant) that had fallen behind the sofa and Marie jumped up and down. "You and me!" she cried. Everything became slightly clearer and I was less than happy. You see, the cover art has a picture of the BFG holding a little girl in the palm of his hand. Obviously Marie associated herself with the girl, so there weren't many options as to how she pictured me. I am apparently an old, balding giant with poor dress-sense, a bulbous nose, ears the size of radar dishes, bushy eyebrows, nasal hair and dodgy teeth.

I paused for a moment and decided that there must be more to it than that. After all, my teeth are fine. I decided it must be something the giant does in the film that made her think of me. This, however, didn't help matters much. The giant kidnaps the girl, feeds her horrible food, inadvertently covers her in slime and nearly gets her eaten.

He also farts a lot.

Then he sings about it.

You're wondering what our kids will remember. Well, I'm hoping she forgets that.

Of course, I could have it all wrong. The film does pick up later on. The BFG takes the girl to see the queen, they have some fun and the bad giants get put in the zoo. There are some scary moments but it all works out in the end.

Maybe Marie just sees me as a big friendly giant who scoops her up and carries her off to have an adventure. That would be nice. When I'm old and my teeth have gone dodgy, she might even look at them and have a vague recollection of bushy eyebrows, flapping ears and strong arms carrying her along. Maybe then she'll smile and maybe, just maybe, I'll get that blanket after all.

I don't think there's any avoiding the coalshed, though. (Sorry).

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), favourite

 
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10:15 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Taking the effort out of being ignored

Dear Dave,

I'm sorry to hear that little Sam has ceased to listen to a word you say. You're right that he might have picked up some anxiety about your pending new addition to the family but it's more likely that's he's simply two-and-a-half now and believes that he knows better than you. Honestly, you're probably lucky he's listened to you this long.

Take my three, for example. They were all standing in a line next to a low wall today. Marie wanted to climb onto the wall and jump off. "No, it's wet," I said. So she climbed on. At which point Fraser sat on the wall. "No, it's wet," I said. Fraser grinned and then Lewis rubbed his sleeve backwards and forwards along the top of the wall. "No, it's wet," I said. They all looked at me blankly. Then they complained they were wet.

Sam will be ignoring you entirely before you know it. You'll have to say things three times before he even realises you've spoken. This could be quite annoying but fortunately I have been working on a solution. The prototype is complete. Another couple of weeks of testing and then my Patented Parental rePeater (TM) will go into full production. The Triple-P (TM) will save the voices and sanity of childcare operatives the world over. Hang it round your neck, go about your daily life and then, at the touch of a button, have it repeat the last thing you said. Press a different button and it will continue to repeat the phrase at regular intervals for several minutes. Each repetition is louder than the last and delivered in a more exasperated tone of voice.

A number of useful phrases come pre-programmed into the Triple-P. These include:

• Look where you're going.
• Don't eat that.
• Say, "Please."
• Not up your nose.
• Put your shoes on.
• Take your shoes off.
• Don't do that.
• Sit down.
• Eat up.
• That's not a hanky.
• Do what you're told.
• Not up my nose.
• Close the fridge.
• That's my foot you're standing on.
• Leave my Triple-P alone.
• That's not yogurt.
• That is yogurt.
• Where did you put my phone?
• For crying out loud, not up anybody's nose.
• Turn your hearing aid on. (For use on grandparents who are supposed to be helping out but have in fact opted for a crafty nap).

There is also memory available for the user to record often repeated phrases of their own. From your letters, I suggest that in your case these might include:

• Shredded Wheat is not for shredding.
• Put the PlayStation down.
• Don't feed the hoover.
• You'll be needing those trousers.
• Why's my phone in the fridge?
• Step away from the hamster.
• I'm not a camel.
• Don't eat your shoes.
• Don't use your grandparents as a hanky.
• What's this yogurt doing up my nose?

The Triple-P also has several special modes:

• Stressed Whisper - for use in church.
• Firm but Polite - for use on other people's children.
• Extra Loud - for parties, playgrounds and natural disasters.

The Triple-P is waterproof, shockproof, easily portable, resistant to toxic bodily fluids and has a battery-life of between 3 hours and 7 weeks (dependent on the number, age and behaviour of your children). Look out for it soon in all good retailers (and on ebay shortly after).

Triple-P - taking the effort out of being ignored.

(Go on, you know you want one...)

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), parenthacks

 
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9:35 AM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  What do you mean we're out of wipes?

Dear Dave,

We had a family day on Saturday.

Yes, that's right, that's one of those occasions where we drag the kids kicking and screaming away from the TV and computer and force them to have an exciting trip to somewhere cold and wet. This lasts from the moment they've finished their breakfasts until a time well after they were supposed to be in bed and long since they have ceased to be civil. The trauma helps us bond together as a unit and is a good excuse to drink a bottle of wine when it's all over.

On this particular occasion there was a deal where we could buy a special train ticket to Glasgow and then go to lots of attractions for free once we got there. Being cheapskates, this appealed to us and we set off early in order to visit as many places - and thus save as much money - as we possibly could. Of course some of the most expensive things in life are free, and our pockets were steadily drained of cash by cafeterias and giftshops thoughout the day. Still, we saw plenty of things we would never have got round to otherwise.

We ended up at the Science Centre. (The home of Nina and the Neurons, CBeebies fans!)
This is a fantastic place full of hands-on experiments and exhibits but our first concern was grabbing lunch. It was pretty decent. Marie refused everything apart from milk and Hula Hoops but the rest of us tucked in. As usual, though, the boys finished their food before drinking their drinks - their vast, brimming cups of chocolate milk. There are only so many times I can say, "Drink your drinks before they get spilled," without giving up in despair, however. That's something I need to work on. Quite how Fraser managed to launch his beverage container a foot into the air while still creating enough rotational motion to splatter all of us is a mystery.

After we'd cleaned up the mess, I went and got Fraser another chocolate milk and I picked up some fruit for later. He gulped it down and we headed to the vast hall full of wonders. Sarah let the younger kids press buttons until they were bored and then pointed them in the direction of something else. I vainly attempted to explain to Fraser the polarity of magnets, the fundamentals of flight and the propagation of sound. He ignored me, pressed buttons until he was bored and then ran off to find something else. I gave up. I taught him to do a Towers of Hanoi puzzle, added a couple of extra rings made from a key fob and a wrist strap, and sat down for a long rest. A very long rest.

Later we went to the giftshop. It was crammed with brightly-coloured exciting looking things packed full of educational potential. I quickly tried to hide my wallet in my sock but Fraser was too fast. He grabbed a pack of plastic bobbly things.

"Can I get this?"

"What is it?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"How much does it cost?

"Five pounds."

"That's a little expensive for something when you don't even know what it is."

"How about this then?" he said, grabbing a smaller pack of different plastic bobbly things.

"What's that?"

"I don't know."

"How much is it?"

"One pound and fifty pence."

"OK," I sighed. "I guess that's more reasonable. Go and give the money to the man at the till." He went off happily just as Lewis approached, a board game clutched to his chest. From somewhere else in the shop I heard the familiar voice of a little girl scream, "You don't touch it! Pink dinosaur mine!" I sighed again.

We left as closing approached and caught the open-top tour bus (another part of the deal) for a scenic trip back to the station. We all piled upstairs and sat along the back. The boys were starting to wilt and I gave them the fruit to keep them going. This was a mistake. After they'd already gorged themselves, I bit into an apple and discovered it was quite sour. There was nothing wrong with it as such, it was just not very sweet in a way that suggested it might take some concentrated digestion. I suspected it was not really the thing to give two boys prone to travel sickness while they sat on a bus twisting and juddering its way through the Glasgow traffic.

"Are you feeling OK, Fraser?" I asked nervously.

"Yeah," he replied. "Why?"

"No reason," I said. "How about...?" I began turning to Lewis but I was already too late.

Everything happened at once.

My younger son leant over the back railing and spewed mightily, somewhat to the surprise of the cyclist directly behind us. I called down an apology but I had more immediate concerns: the sight and smell of Lewis' titanic chunder had started Fraser gagging. I grabbed the plastic bag containing our souvenirs, emptied it in Sarah's lap and then held it under Fraser's chin. I was barely in time to catch the geyser of chocolate milk which erupted from his mouth and just kept coming. There was so much, and it was under such high pressure, I expected it to spray out his ears at any moment. Then, finally, the seismic activity eased and I sighed in relief - I had caught every drop. I held the bag aloft in triumph.

Unfortunately, it had a hole in the bottom.

I stared at the hole, my eyes wide in horror, and time slowed. The trinkets falling at Sarah's feet hung in the air, I could hear my own heartbeat and I suddenly noticed the warm, damp feeling around my knees. Reality spun round my outstretched arm...

...then snapped back into place. I dumped the bag on the floor and hunted for the wipes. The previous chocolate milk incident had seriously depleted our supplies and a couple of nappy changes had left us very short indeed. We had one left. One wipe to last us nearly two hours. One wipe to see us through over three hundred and fifty child-minutes. That's not a lot of back up. I decided to save it in case of a real disaster and cleaned up as best I could with my scarf. By the time we reached our stop, Fraser and I looked nearly presentable.

We were left with that age-old dilemma of whether to leave the leaking bag of sick on the top deck of the bus or to carry it the full length of the bus, down the stairs and out the door, leaking a trail of sick behind us. Tricky. In the end, I put the bag inside my woolly hat and made a break for it. I hurtled to the door, leapt onto the pavement and barged my way to the nearest bin, the crowd parting before me like the Red Sea before Moses. (Though I doubt he yelled "Let me through! I have a hat full of sick!" to get the job done).

I was tempted to dump the hat with its contents but instead stowed it with my scarf in the net carrier under the buggy, as far from anything else as I could manage.

We cleaned up a bit more in the station and headed home. We'd had a pretty good day, even if some of us did smell faintly of curdled chocolate milk. Marie fell asleep on the way and the boys played with their new toys. I spent most of the journey rescuing multi-coloured bits of plastic from obscure crevices of ScotRail seating. Some of these little gaps were unpleasantly sticky but I did score a two pound coin, a return journey from Falkirk and a Lego Darth Vader complete with light-sabre. Result!

It was extremely chilly when we got back to Edinburgh and by the time we had walked half way home I was freezing. I peered under the buggy in an effort to see if my hat and scarf had gone crusty yet. Sarah rubbed her hands against the cold. "Don't even think about it," she said without even looking at me. Marie was snuggled cosily under a blanket so I stole her pink, fluffy pixie hat and jammed it down on my head. It's possible I may have looked like a lunatic but it's only a real lunatic who walks around with cold ears when they have other options.

It was late. We got home and bundled the kids into bed before putting on a load of washing and settling down in our pyjamas with a bottle of wine and the TiVo remote.

"You did well today," said Sarah as we cuddled up on the sofa.

"You did too."

"Want to go to Dundee next week? I got this leaflet in the Science Centre about... What?"

"More wine..." I muttered. "More wine..."

"Never mind." She kissed me and then poured me another glass. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

"Good idea," I said and reached for the remote. "Now which is it going to be - Vegas, New York or Miami?"

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), favourite, science, sickness

 
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10:30 AM - Permanent Link - 1 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  My children are doomed

Dear Dave,

Fraser is very good at maths and has learnt to speak Pokemon. I've been thinking about whether I've turned him into a geek or whether it was just inevitable. I think the answer is probably just 'yes'.



Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), science

 
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2:07 PM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Another child

Dear Dave,

Congratulations! It's great to hear Sam has a little brother or sister on the way. I'm glad the scan went fine and Liz is doing OK. With luck she'll stop being sick at the mention of broccoli soon.

In your letter it sounds like you're somewhere on the border between Excitement and Panic. This is of course a fantastic locale to visit, full of unexpected career changes, lifestyle choices and sky-diving taster sessions, but you wouldn't want to live there. Take a deep breath. Resist the siren call of olive farming in Tuscany, of difficult to explain Visa bills and of mysterious women named Svetlana. Come home to the land in which every housedad should start their day - the land of Hopeful Trepidation. You may end the day in Rage or Despair but it's more likely that things will simply muddle along in the eventual direction of A Beer on the Sofa in Front of CSI. (Don't confuse Hopeful Trepidation with Blind Optimism, however - always travel with a pack of babywipes, a change of socks, three spare nappies and a big stick).

Which is just another way of saying don't worry, you'll cope. Trust me. I've got three under-sevens and I'm still sane... OK, I admit I'm recovering from depression and I've just described your emotional state in terms of a text adventure but I'm not yet entirely crazy and I still have my health. Apart from the bad back from lifting Fraser, this flu Marie gave me and a touch of conjunctivitis I picked up from Lewis...

Hmm... I'll come in again.

Two children? You'll be fine. I've got three and I'm still clinging to the last vestiges of reason and I'm not dead yet. No worries.

Perhaps this isn't as reassuring as I'd hoped. The truth is, you are going to have your hands full for a while. I used to know a guy who had five kids under nine years old. He was a somewhat busy man but he and his wife sailed around quite serenely in a sea of children. He told me that one child changes your life, a second child changes your life again and beyond that there's not much more left to change.

He was probably right. Looking after a baby takes plenty of time. When Fraser was small, I calculated that taking care of him took eight hours a day, nine days a week. It wasn't necessarily hard or constant labour, though. I could sit in an armchair and watch re-runs of ER while giving him a bottle and then get on with other stuff while he had a nap. Lewis made things busier. There was always an awake child to be entertained and I was doing eleven days a week. That may not sound like a vast increase in workload but think of it more in terms of the drastic decrease in time left for anything else, including looking after another child. When Marie arrived, she simply had to fit in.

So, yes, your life is about to change again but not as much as last time and you're on a roll now -you might as well keep going. Still, having another child always seems daunting. You look at a dad with two children and wonder how he copes. He looks at me and my three in bewilderment. I look at a mum with four kids and break into manic giggling while my eye starts to twitch. She smiles sweetly and sails off serenely in her little sea of children. Bah...

Don't be discouraged, though. She doesn't have superhuman powers or an extraordinary level of patience. She's smiling because she's going to be home in ten minutes and then she'll be able to lock the little blighters back in their cage, put her feet up and watch Trisha.

You see, children expand to fill the time you have available for them. If you've only got five minutes they'll settle for that but if you've got all day then they'll take it. One of the most immediate advantages to having multiple children is you quickly learn that a crying child doesn't explode if you leave him for more than ten seconds. Trying to play Snakes and Ladders with one, while you change another and feed a third is just going to end up in some form of misfortune. They have to wait their turn, no matter how much they whine. The more children you have, the more time you will spend ignoring most of them. Once you're good at it you can spend some of the time ignoring all of them and sneak off for a cup of coffee and a quick surf.

Got to look forward to something... (Don't worry, you'll cope).

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

P.S. Wish me luck on Monday - Scary Karen is after me.

Labels: children (vol.1)

 
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2:02 PM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Illness

Dear Dave,

I don't really remember my parents being ill when I was small. I know now that this is because I was the youngest of four and by the time I came along they had had EVERYTHING already.
Small children - you love them, you take care off them, you give them your energy and your youth. How do they repay you? They go out into the world and bring you back diseases, that's how.

Bleargh. I'm off to overdose on Lockets (again),

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

Labels: children (vol.1), sickness

 
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3:08 PM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post

  Message in a Bottle

Dear Dave,

I hope this letter finds you well. Actually, I just hope this letter finds you. 'Dave-the-dad-who-stays-home, Leeds,' doesn't give the postie much to go on. Still, it's worth a shot. I'm guessing you must live in Leeds because everyone I know in the entire country has heard of you, so you must live somewhere fairly central. As for your name, well, everyone I ever meet is called Dave and so it's a fair bet. Then again, I haven't actually met you, which might throw the statistics and I… Oh, never mind, I'm wittering on like a man who was up half the night being vomited on by a two-year-old.

Which brings me to my point.

Seeing as we've never met, maybe I'd better explain who I am. I'm the other one. Yes, the other housedad! I thought we should get a bit of a correspondence going to share our experiences because it's a mum's world we live in and no one really seems to understand. For instance, whenever I explain that I'm a housedad, people look confused and then remember that, in this politically correct age, every individual has an equal right to an outlandish and deviant lifestyle. They stop looking confused, they laugh nervously and then they affirm me. They tell me that housedads are quite common these days. After all, their mother's hairdresser's acquaintance's nephew stays home and looks after his children.

I smile and nod. 'Yes, we're all over the place,' I say. Then I go home and phone my aunt and tell her to stop gossiping to random hairdressers about me and the kids.

Of course, it's not always me they're talking about - sometimes they're talking about you – but I'm pretty sure there are only the two of us. We need to stick together. I'm fed up of just discussing babies at parent and toddler group. I want more. I want to share some meaningful insights on fatherhood, football and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. At the very least, I want to discuss PlayStations as well as poo.

Please write back if you are able. If you're too busy searching the house for wooden bricks in an assortment of colours, then I quite understand. We have a tub that claims it contained a hundred when we bought it. At the last count there were twenty-three and the others aren't in the washing-machine. Where do they go? Which reminds me, I had a box of tissues here a minute ago…

D'oh! Got to go,

Yours in a woman's world,

Ed.

PS Vomit Girl encloses several handfuls of shredded Kleenex for your little boy.

Labels: children (vol.1), computer games, housedad (vol.1)

 
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11:03 PM - Permanent Link - 0 comments - Post comment - Links to this post